Warning
by Is That Rhetorical
Summary: "You ought to come with a warning label." Usually, not talking about rubbish like feelings makes things easier. But nothing makes this easier. Post-Reichenbach. Contains Mary Morstan.
1. Chapter 1

**This was once both much shorter and much longer. Longer before I realized there's a reason Mofftiss write the Sherlock episodes and I don't, and shorter before reasons and four and a half thousand word explosions and trying to be very clever because this fandom is basically the most overwhelmingly intelligent fandom, like, ever.**

**There might be more. Should there be more? And if so, in what capacity? I aim to please. And I enjoy prompts. Particularly on wishful-thinking-Mary-as-a-real-character-in-this-version-even-if-Conan-Doyle-didn't-give-her-all-that-much-development-to-begin-with, *hinthint*... Please.**

* * *

"Not that difficult," John mutters to himself. He's already greeted Mrs. Hudson - a hug, her going on about how brave he was, (which is a damn lie because it's taken him all this time just to come back and look) wishing him luck - and now the seventeen impossible steps lay before him. Seventeen. So specific. Where had that come from?

He knows where it came from. Where does any of it come from, the random factoids that somehow managed to still stick and hurt three years later? Tobacco ash. Maps of London. The door handles of Chinese restaurants - though he'd never gotten to explain that one and John couldn't figure it out, of course. The phone in his pocket.

Occasionally, he does it too. Not everything, not within one glance, not always, and he certainly doesn't say it out loud because he thinks he's right or clever. But sometimes he'll be working, barely looking at his patient, when he'll suddenly notice something on their shoes, or something about their hands that makes him look twice to make sure he's really seeing it. And he'll remember what it means and why and when Sherlock told him and what case they were on and then he stops, because that's still so hard and he really needs to focus. He swings his leg up.

His flat with Mary doesn't have steps, and now he remembers why: Psychosomatic or not, this _hurts_. It hurts and it hasn't gotten any better since it started coming back the day of the funeral. The old John Watson - Mike Stamford's John Watson or... - wouldn't have wanted a flat with no stairs just because it was easy, but he's more practical now. What's the point in causing himself pain in the vague hope that someday, it'll get better? He isn't sure when he became so cynical, but he knows isn't quite so disgusted with himself for taking the easy way out any more.

The door handle doesn't stick when he turns it. Mrs. Hudson kept the flat in better shape than she let on. He already doesn't see how she's been able to let it sit empty for three years.

But, sure enough, there are their things. Their mess. Mrs. Hudson had talked about getting rid of things, or at least cleaning up so it's not in such a state more than once, but she'd clearly never gotten around to it, or maybe just not had the heart. John's breath catches in his throat. Jesus, it looks like he'll just waltz out of the kitchen with more papers to spread around... which is precisely what happens.

He's dressed but without his jacket or shoes, and John immediately notices that he's decidedly thinner. He's armed to the teeth with photographs and push pins to add to the diagram on the wall, which, John should have noticed, displays a different puzzle than the one Sherlock left three years ago. His march across the room is self-assured. All so, so normal.

... Until he meets Johns eyes. Then his stride falters, and John sees how tired he is. Really, truly tired, like he's coming down from metaphorical days of coffee and nicotine patches and not even more stimulants will do it any more, he needs to collapse for a while. A host of expressions flash through the blue eyes. Surprise. Panic. Things that John can't find a word to describe, and he doubts anyone ever will. Guilt.

He looks away first.

John isn't sure how he feels while Sherlock closes the distance from the center of the room to the couch, or while he sets down the photographs and fiddles with them for a long few, completely unnecessary seconds. He isn't sure when Sherlock stops and leaves the photos, but still won't look at him. There's still guilt on the downcast face, and all John can think about is how wrong it looks. It isn't until he draws himself up and opens his mouth that John knows.

"John. You're a bit early. I won't pretend it's not inconvenient..."

He doesn't get to finish.

Sherlock reels backward and there's a heavy thud. The table doesn't tip only because of the heavy load on the other side. John shakes out his hand as Sherlock emerges, gingerly touching the wrong side of his face. The hard wood has made a cut in the tender flesh between his eye and cheekbone - which juts from his face imperiously as ever - that hasn't started to bleed yet, but it will. The other side will only bruise, not even badly. John knows - damn it all, he knows - that he shouldn't feel as guilty as he does. Sherlock deserves it, and much more besides.

But the resigned look that comes over him, how he doesn't protest or ask what it was for or rattle off something about what John was doing last night, makes him feel awful and satisfied all at once.

"Told you: Always," he says, as though picking up an old conversation. He knows exactly which one. They both do. _I always hear, "punch me in the face," when you're speaking, but it's usually subtext._ He turns on his heel and starts back down the stairs, his leg not hurting quite so much, thinking that the worst part was that it truly felt as though nothing had changed.

* * *

He doesn't say anything to Mary when he gets back to their flat. She knows something went wrong, of course - what did it say about him, that he was only really wanted to spend time with people who were brilliant enough to see straight through him? - and she would find out exactly what it was soon enough.

"Soon enough," this time, is only after a few hours, when John suddenly goes for his coat and says, "Sorry. I've got to go back. I'm sorry, I know..." He's not sure what he knows. That they were going to have a nice night in, with take out and crap telly and not saying much because there isn't much to be said and staring into each other's eyes like something off the bad drama they're watching, like a dozen others they've had since they met? That John really shouldn't go back for a while, maybe ever? She gives him a look as she follows him to the door. He sees in her face that she's pieced it together and, somehow, she still doesn't object.

She doesn't say anything as he kisses her goodbye, which is what he loves desperately about her. She reads him so clearly and somehow knows just when he needs to talk and how much and where to press and what to leave alone, with a remarkable, blissful ability to let things go entirely, and maybe it's enabling him and his trust issues but does he give a damn?

Mrs. Hudson is still up, but he doesn't stop to say hello again because he's embarrassed and there's a dusty light peeking out from under the door of 221B - their door. The bastard is still in.

The stairs are easier this time and he hates it. One glimpse of him for not even a minute, one punch to the face and there he is, messing with his head and his limp. John doesn't nock.

"Go away." The voice comes from the couch. John steps in and looks at him curled up there with an ice bag flush against his face, causing tissue damage, and there are the emotions again. Surprise. Panic. Guilt. "John," he says quickly. "I thought you were Mycroft."

John needs a moment to formulate a reply, so he takes the ice away. He knows Sherlock thought no such thing. "Your brother's developed a limp since I last saw him?" he asks as he wraps the plastic bag in his handkerchief - which is, admittedly, a little used, but the possibility of a mild cold is no more than Sherlock deserves. It sounds neither as detached nor imperious as he would like, but Sherlock says nothing.

He hands the ice back, then notices a faint scratch on the cheek where John had hit him that hadn't been there before; not enough to break the skin, but inflamed. There's another, shorter one next to it, barely more than a dot. He squints at them, then raises his eyebrows.

Without looking at him, Sherlock replies to the unanswered question, "Mrs. Hudson's nails are in need of a trim."

This brings a morbid smile to John's face. "Good for her," he mutters.

He begins to look around the flat, noting the changes. He sees that Sherlock has been living here for a while now, very quietly, evidently. No violin early in the morning, no strange smells, no heavy footfalls or outburst from boredom. Nothing to get Mrs. Hudson's attention, which is quite remarkable. There was a case on, a big one, otherwise there wouldn't have been a need for the photos and the mapping. And Mycroft comes to call, frequently enough to have Sherlock on edge all the time, even if he had been lying about confusing their footsteps. Something important enough for them to work together.

"You're noticing," Sherlock says suddenly. His eyes are fixed on John. "Good."

There's an important word stuck in the back of John's throat. He tries several times, opening his mouth and closing it again to try to get a better grip. It needs to be said, but he just doesn't want to cooperate.

More deep breaths later than he likes to admit, John says, "Why?

"Why, Sherlock? Why did you do this? No," he says as Sherlock opens his mouth, "No, I don't care, actually, it's always something. National importance or the world's going to... blow up, or something. No. I just need to know why you didn't think I could be trusted with it."

"John, I -"

"How long did you make Mycroft wait?" Petty. Petty, petty, petty. And he's not letting Sherlock explain, which isn't fair. But John doesn't care. The words won't stop now. "You don't even like him, and you know what? It was all his fault, the business with Moriarty. All him. Or did he figure it out? Is that it? Was I supposed to have gotten it too? Thanks. Thanks for that, Sherlock. I'm just not smart enough. I'm not smart enough to be able to know that my best friend _isn't actually dead_!" His voice breaks and his throat is sore with suppressed sobs and God, everything hurts.

"John, that's not it."

"Then what the _hell_ is it!" he shouts.

He waits while Sherlock's jaw works. The ice has made its way to the table and is forgotten, and John can see the bruising around his eye and he's not sorry. "I didn't want you in the line of fire again," he finally says. It's terribly, terribly controlled.

John laughs, and it hurts to be so bitter. "Don't, Sherlock, don't say what you don't mean."

"I never do, John -"

"You didn't want me in the way of your brilliant plans to do whatever you were doing for -"

"That's not what I said, _listen_ to the _words I used!"_ Sherlock bangs the table for punctuation. He's only ever done it like that once before, with such a fierce intensity that John was momentarily frightened. He rearranges his features and says calmly, "It was going to be tomorrow. I was going to tell you tomorrow."

"Why tomorrow? And what good, exactly, did you think that was going to do? Did you think you were just going to show up on my doorstep and we could just go have adventures again and nothing would be wrong? I've got a life, now, Sherlock. I'm getting married. Married! In six months. And you know what, I'm not sure you're getting an invite."

John sees Sherlock's lips move and he thinks they might be forming the words, "Don't be absurd," but he isn't sure and there's enough to be angry over already. And then he says aloud, "I know, John."

John purses his lips and says again, "Why tomorrow?"

"Because," Sherlock says, standing up. He doesn't speak with the arrogance that he would have three years ago, but there's that glint of a thrill in his eye now that tells him he'd been hoping John would ask after he'd gotten done shouting at him, and John tries to tell himself that it doesn't make him curious or excited and hates himself when it doesn't work. "Tonight, I finally bring in Moriarty's right hand man. He's the prize I've been chasing over the continent while I've been locking up all the petty criminals in our friend Jim's employ. No match for either of us, of course, but very, very good at running and not getting caught in traps."

"And now you've got one you think will work." Why was he fueling Sherlock's ego? That's all this is. And he isn't done shouting yet.

"Exactly."

"Why?"

"Because I am the bait."

John's stomach sinks and a cold sweat washes over him. He shakes his head very slightly because that's all he can manage. "No," he says.

Sherlock cocks his head to the side, not understanding. "Why not? It's perfect. Moran has an overly strong sentimental connection to his employer and wants to finish Moriarty's work: Killing me."

"Yeah, that's exactly why not." He wants to punch him again. He's fairly certain Sherlock isn't being a prat on purpose, but that doesn't make a difference. He's almost ready to say it explicitly, the things he keeps inside because finding the words is just too hard. _I don't want to even _think_ about you dying again, not now that you've just come back. Please don't make me._

"I don't..." He stops. Thinks a moment. Then he rolls his eyes with understanding and sighs heavily. "I'm in no danger, John."

"You're never in danger, to hear you talk. I'm just in danger of not knowing you're not in danger."

Sherlock is about to say something else when the door swings open. Mycroft Holmes peers in with a bemused look on his face. "Bit of a domestic spat, is it?" He gives John a charming smile while Sherlock tells him to shut up. "Good evening, Dr. Watson," he says warmly, as though it hasn't been almost two years since they'd last spoken.

"Evening," John says stiffly.

"Your concern is perfectly sound," Mycroft says in a care-free voice, twirling the umbrella he's brought, as always, despite the lack of rain. "Or at least, concern in the original draft of this plan would be perfectly sound."

"Oh, please," Sherlock mutters on his way back to the sofa.

"I had misgivings when it was first presented to me," he continues. "My brother luring into the grasp of Scotland Yard a man who has outsmarted him -" Sherlock mumbles "out-ran" "- several times with the promise of his own assassination is a disaster waiting to happen. However, with the both of us working on it, I can assure you it is quite safe."

"Please," Sherlock says. "You changed a grand total of three minute details as far from intrinsic as it's possible to be."

"For the record," Mycroft says loudly, "I thought you should have been told much sooner, Dr. Watson. Sherlock was insistent that you be kept out of harms way.

"The plan is already in the final stages. I can assure you that if you stay here, you will not even be aware of its conclusion."

John shakes his head. His mouth makes the movements to say, "I can't," but the sound doesn't quite make it. So, instead, he says, "I'll just... take a minute. You two discuss your top secret, don't-explode-the-world crap." He steps out, closes the door, and takes a series of shaky, stabilizing breaths.

* * *

"Didn't I tell you this is what you could expect?" Mycroft makes for what had always been John's seat, because he knows it won't go unnoticed and he can't resist poking at his brother, even when he's upset. "Didn't I tell you it would hurt him?"

"For God's sake, Mycroft, please tell me we're not going to discuss _feelings_." Sherlock spits the word as though it's something dirty. "Us. _Feelings_."

"Not if it doesn't please his Royal Highness."

"How very modern. Isn't that treason for you, dear brother?"

"It might be for you."

"Fascinating."

There is a silence. There always seems to be silence when they're together, Mycroft has noticed. So few things really needed to be said.

But... "It's very noble of you, really." Sherlock is standing up, not listening, which is probably better. "You truly want him to be happy with Ms. Morstan, don't you?"

"Mycroft..."

He almost continues. But there's no bite to his name, no derision, and no irritation either. Just urgency. His brother is scanning the adjacent building, keeping his body as far away from the window frame as the flat allows. Internal alarms go off. Mycroft stands too, gears turning in his own mind. He's gotten every confirmation of the false trail. The airport, the cabs, the diversion at the hotel, where had it - ?

"I think we've made a -"

The word "mistake" is barely started, certainly not finished. Mycroft takes a step, tries to support his brother as he reels backward and gets a pinwheeling arm in the nose for his efforts. They both go down hard, Sherlock gasping. A second bullet hits John's chair, but then there are no more. The ground is low enough, then.

Mycroft pulls off his jacket, grabbing his phone from his inside pocket and pressing a few pre-selected buttons to call for an ambulance carrying more units of AB blood than was _technically_ allowed. The jacket covers the wound just below Sherlock's ribcage, then both palms follow to try to stem the spurts of blood. Sherlock convulses, groaning at this development. Mycroft tries to discern if there's blood on his lips without taking the pressure off.

"John," Sherlock whispers breathily. His lips are moving as though there are other words he's trying to say, but that is the only one audible. "John."

"I'm here, you idiot." Mycroft hadn't heard him come in, but there he is, bending over his friend, trying to get a good look. "Move," he says, prying the jacket away, no less harsh than Mycroft deserves. He obeys, and John is examining the wound, finding the severed artery. He takes one of Mycroft's hands and presses it to a very specific spot on Sherlock's chest. "Pressure, right there," he tells him. "Don't stop or he'll bleed out. Ambulance?"

"On the way."

"John," Sherlock says again.

"I know, I know, I've been shot too, remember," he responds without looking up. He pinches something else that Mycroft can't see, then puts his free hand on Sherlock's shoulder, gives it a little shake. "It's all right, Sherlock, you hear me? It's going to be all right."

"John."

"No. No, you stay with me, okay?" He moves his hand from Sherlock's shoulder down his arm until he reaches the end, twining their fingers together. Mycroft isn't sure why until he sees how gray his brother looks and how badly he's shaking. When the hell had that happened? "Stay with me. You can sleep all you want later. Days, if you want. Just stay awake now."

"John." He sounds as weak as he looks.

"No, damnit, that's not how it works, you _bloody know that_!"

Then the ambulance is there and John is instructing the paramedics and they don't have time to argue and damnit he's Sherlock's doctor, he's coming with them and Mycroft is left alone on the floor of 221B Baker Street, covered in his brother's blood and shaken more than he ever plans to admit to anyone. All lives end, he reminds himself, but the thought of Sherlock's life ending at that exact moment is no less terrifying. This is how it feels, to care so very much, and Mycroft knows why the Holmes brothers cut themselves off. It's not for any of the noble reasons they like to boast of. It's not because they are superior. It's not because the alternative is not an advantage. It's not so they can think more clearly. It's not because they can rationalize human lives down to water and proteins and trace amounts of minerals so what does any of it matter anyway.

It's because it hurts.

It hurts, and they are too weak to cope with the pain caring brings. Mycroft had all but collapsed when Sherlock had jumped. That the world seemed to slow to a halt in the days after the detective's suicide was not an illusion. The British government (and much more besides) could barely move from his armchair in the Diogenes Club where he'd fixed his face to make it look like he didn't feel the immense and all encompassing pain of questions that even he would never be able to find answers to, of spats that would never happen, grudging compromises that would never be made. And it was somehow worse when Sherlock casually showed up in his flat, demanding the means to go traipsing about Europe as a one man police force, cleaning up everything Moriarty had left behind.

Mycroft had barely been able to scold him. But he did manage to ask, "Does John know?" which he knew was so much worse.

Dr. John H. Watson. Nerves of steel indeed. Mycroft had found out how upset John was by the Moriarty business, as _he_ went about cleaning up _Sherlock's_ mess. John Watson _cares_ so much, and never tries to make it stop, not really. How masochistic. How stupid. How brave. He'd been hurt so deeply, and he was still willing to jump back in the moment he heard the gunshot. Still willing to save Sherlock and make him worse than ever. Still willing to hear the words Sherlock can't say.

_John, I'm sorry. I was wrong, John, I'm so sorry._

_John, it hurts. Please make it stop, _please_, it hurts so much._

_I'm so tired, John, I just want to sleep. Please let me sleep. _

_John, I'm afraid._

He wonders if John even notices that the rest of the words aren't there.

* * *

Sherlock notices that he's in a hospital and that he's drugged out of his mind. Which is, admittedly, overwhelmingly good; he's survived this long and regaining consciousness so there's a decent if not good prognosis and he will freely admit that he would not consider it a missed opportunity for science if he never has the experience of being shot in the chest without heavy pain medication ever again. He opens his eyes.

Of course, it's not a simple as that, because it's so much work. The drugs - or maybe the injury - want to make him just lie there, conscious but unseeing, which has never been his preferred state of being. He fights it.

When he finally does get them to open and stay that way, John is there. Just like he promised in the ambulance - or maybe when they were coming into the hospital - when they were pumping Sherlock full of blood and he was getting feeling back in his fingers and of course his chest and he will swear to the end of his days that there has never been a worse pain experienced by anyone, mostly just to annoy Mycroft, and they were tearing John away from him so they could go save his life and he was so irrationally afraid of being rolled away from his blogger on a gurney again and he begged, God help him, Sherlock begged for John not to go and he promised he would be there when Sherlock woke up.

But John is ignoring him. He must have seen Sherlock, as he'd worked every muscle he could for the simple task of moving his eyelids - that are still so, so heavy - but he makes no show of it, staring at something on the floor. Maybe the bed. Sherlock hates what the painkillers are doing to him and makes a note to heal as quickly as possible.

He consciously decides to speak. He appreciates how easy it normally is now that he can't seem to manage to get his jaw or his vocal chords to work properly. It takes a few tries and winds him. Winds him, lying down on an uncomfortable cot that he may as well be a part of. "John."

"You ought to come with a warning label," he says. He'd been waiting for this. He sounds irritated and... and... Sherlock angrily wrestles with his addled brain. He squeezes Sherlock's fingers, but doesn't have to take ahold of them. How long has he been sitting there, holding Sherlock's hand? "Warning: When he says he plays violin when he's thinking, know that he thinks at two in the morning and doesn't tend to stop until you've got to get up for work. Know that you will never, ever be able to keep food in the flat because he's filled everywhere you might keep it with experiments. Know that he's prone to faking his own suicide and letting you think it was real for three years because he's a bloody idiot who thinks you need to be kept safe. Know that he'll drag you into dangerous situations while you're on a case that has nothing to do with you and you won't mind a bit. Know that you'll _willingly_ save him when he's being the absolute _stupidest_ clever person you'll ever meet. Know that you might become more clever from prolonged exposure. Know that you'll want to be more clever, for him. Know that he'll... he'll become your best friend without even trying."

"Feelings," Sherlock mutters, or he thinks he does. Everything is getting so hazy; another wave of drugs hitting his bloodstream, perhaps. But not Johns words. He puts them in a safe place, where he'll never forget.

Because John's never said anything like this. Knowing him, he likely never will again. He put so much effort into wording it just so, imperfectly perfect. The extended metaphor is a bit heavy and Sherlock doesn't care. It's all so sentimental, and Sherlock doesn't care.

Because he knows John forgives him as he never should have.


	2. Chapter 2

**More because the lovely eohippus suggested more? And because this is ridiculously fun to write and I love building Mary's character and if the Mofftiss don't include her/make her more awesome than I can make her I'm going to be really angry with them and not angry at all because I forgive them always?**

**I also don't own things. I always hate writing that because don't be obvious.**

* * *

Sherlock decides on his first full day awake that the hospital - under-stimulating, not even worth the time it takes to catalogue the varying degrees of boring, the end-all definition of "dull" - is his own personal hell, and that Moran has as good as killed him by sending him here, since he hadn't been able to get the proper shot from his angle.

Moran is part of the problem. Sherlock isn't supposed to be worrying about the Colonel because Mycroft is dealing with him, and he's worrying about the Colonel because Mycroft is supposed to be dealing with him. All he's really ever trusted Mycroft to do is shamelessly spy on people in ways that may or may not be effective in keeping them safe but will most certainly be effective in producing metric tons of blackmail and they clearly need to reevaluate Moran's intelligence or at least his level of guile. They've told Mrs. Hudson to stay at home in the hope that Moran hadn't noticed her or thought her important, and it would be more suspicious if she suddenly took off for the countryside or some such. There's nothing for Lestrade, but he's probably holed up in the Yard - or he should be, if he's got half as much sense as Sherlock thinks he has. At least he doesn't have to worry about John's safety.

John. He's out cold in as comfortable a chair - well, chairs - as the hospital can provide, catching up on his sleep while Sherlock's awake and not too addled, though that does come at the price of an uncomfortable amount of throbbing that doesn't hesitate to turn into outright pain if he breaths too deeply. He hadn't wanted Sherlock awake at first, doing something as silly as "keeping watch," but thankfully John is a practical man who can recognize the real danger that comes with having a persistent professional sniper trying to kill one or both of them and that if Sherlock wants to call it "keeping watch" instead of "making sure they're not going to have a surprise bullet to the temple," then let him, no matter how little good it will do if Moran is _actually_ in the adjacent building, lining them up in his scopes. It's more understanding than Sherlock deserves.

He starts as the door opens, like he has every time in the past hour and a half that a nurse or a doctor has stopped by to look at his charts or check some levels or ask how he's feeling, which does uncomfortable things to the knot in his chest. He always gets back at them by being deeply offensive, naturally.

This time, it's Mary Morstan. Pale, blonde, five foot three, thirty four years old, raised in Edinburgh, undergraduate degree from the university there, English teacher, working on her doctorate, engaged to Dr. John H. Watson, living with him in central London, prefers coffee to tea one very cuddly cat used to play cello self-done manicures every Sunday night recent wardrobe upgrade a lot of grading long papers and a lot of typing doesn't like alcohol father on board with the marriage but mother doesn't like John summarily does not give a damn here to bring John a blanket and some clothes. Sherlock knows most of this already, but it helps to see it on her hands and in the nuances of her non-descript jeans, blouse and jacket.

She makes a bee-line for John, and Sherlock notices her eyes. They move in a quick, sure pattern that Sherlock recognizes from his experiments with his methods and a mirror: Cataloguing, or as close to it as ordinary people come. Specifically, she notes the window, the lack of a glass pane in the door, and him. Their eyes meet for a moment, and Sherlock appreciates the coldness there.

She puts John's clothes on the floor, removes the blanket from the top of the pile, and tucks him in. She's quick and economical about it, but tender, taking a moment when she's done to brush her fingers against the stubble that's formed on his face. Then she turns to Sherlock.

"I don't mind sharing him with you," she says. She's quiet, so as not to wake John, but there's nothing soft about her tone. "If you're worried about that. And I won't try to talk him out of forgiving you, either. That's his choice to make, not mine. I won't even try to talk him out of picking you first. But I don't forgive you for hurting him."

Sherlock wants to be disgusted by the display and criticize John's choice in women when he wakes up, but there's something so completely sincere and matter-of-fact and not at all inherently threatening that makes him hesitate a little when he says, "Don't be so dramatic."

She shrugs. She doesn't play that up either. That Mary Morstan is a very practical, honest woman goes on the list. "I just thought you should know. It's not a threat, or a promise of revenge or anything silly like that. But I've known him for three years and he's never been happier than he was yesterday on the phone, while you were in surgery and he didn't know if you were going to pull through, and I'll never forgive you for that."

"Understood," he says because he needs to have the last word, even when he knows that he hasn't really had the last word because how does even Sherlock Holmes follow that? He's wrong and he knows he's wrong and no amount of technicalities of the case will ever make him right because he has the words in his mind palace to prove it.

* * *

John wakes up because someone is hitting his shoe. He jerks up and his whole body is in a weird way because he's spread out over two plastic chairs, but at least he's warm because someone's draped a blanket over him. He takes a moment with that, because it's one of the nice plush ones that Mary likes to have on the sofa when they cuddle. Someone's come by - no, _Mary's_ come by; who else would know that those are his favorite when they're normally in the closet so he can actually get to the bed before he falls asleep?

The tapping starts again, moving up to his ankle. Sherlock is saying something. "Wake up, John, for God's sake." His voice is wrong; too high pitched and too tense and... Jesus.

John almost falls to the floor trying to get up because humans more graceful than he have been baffled by the conundrum of getting out of a makeshift bed of two plastic chairs without looking like an idiot. Sherlock's white as a sheet and shaking and why the _hell_ hasn't anyone come to make sure there was still morphine in the drip? Thank God there's sterile equipment and bottles of medication sitting on the cart.

"Easy," John says while he loads a needle. "You'll pull your stitches, and then where will we be?"

"John," Sherlock moans, and he's as good as straight complaining of the pain.

"I. _K__now_. Shot. In. Afghanistan. Where I was lucky if I got any morphine before they shipped me home." That wasn't quite true; he'd been drugged into a stupor and kept there when they'd gotten to base, but there was the matter of the hours it took to get there with only the mild drugs in his field kit and _that_ had been hell. John unclips the glucose drip and trades it for the needle.

"Not all of it," Sherlock warns in the same pained voice.

John rolls his eyes. He hasn't even got enough there to knock anyone out properly, and certainly not Sherlock Holmes, who shouldn't even really be awake as it is. But he stops three quarters of the way and reconnects the drip, then pries Sherlock's hand open so he can hold it in both of his.

Gradually, Sherlock loosens up and starts to breath normally again, and John doesn't feel quite so guilty about asking, "Why did your pain medication wear off? There should have been seventeen people in here before it got that bad. Why weren't there?"

A frustrated look comes over his face; frustrated and righteous, but knowing that he's been unreasonable. "Because," he says, "I told as many of them as I could that they are irritating, useless, and redundant when a medical doctor is already a full time occupant of this room, and that they should spread the word. What are you laughing at?"

The words themselves are as arrogant and sharp as ever, but Sherlock's having trouble getting decent lungfuls of air - he will be for weeks - and the result sounds like someone trying to imitate Sherlock's mannerisms and being not quite clever enough and somehow it's hilarious. "Sorry," John gasps as soon as he can manage. "But that's the first properly dickish thing you've said since I've seen you. Christ, it's good to have you back."

Sherlock is trying to look irritated and it makes John laugh all the harder. It takes him a while to calm down, and by that time, Sherlock has prepared a statement. "Mary was here." He gets it in one breath, which is good, because otherwise it might have set John off again and he's not ashamed to admit it.

"Yeah, I know. I noticed," he adds cheekily.

"Oh did you."

"Yep. Brought me a blanket. Lovely warm thing," he says, grabbing it off the chair and holding it up. "You can have it, if you're cold at all, I know hospital blankets are rubbish. Made of tissue paper." Then, because he's curious, "Did you... talk to her at all?"

"A bit. She's lovely, John."

"Lovely" makes him suspicious. It's not a word that Sherlock uses to describe... well, anything. John in fact recalls an in depth conversation - i.e. Sherlock rant - about it's meaning after a few too many episodes of "A Bit of Fry and Laurie." "You don't have to say that if you don't mean it, Sherlock, I don't care. I'm marrying her. I don't need your approval."

"I know that." He sounds offended. "I don't always lie, not to you. I think she'll be good for you. I think she has been already. Am I right?"

She has, really, but it's so strange to hear Sherlock - _Sherlock_! - talking about it. Maybe things really have changed. Or maybe he's just trying to be a little more sensitive to John and talking about it and it's actually working this time? John's not sure what this means and he's not so sure he likes it. For one, it's awkward as all hell. "Yeah," he says finally. "Yeah, she has. She's my rock. Never minds that sometimes I _don't actually need to talk."  
_

"Unlike now, it seems."

"Oh, sod off, that's all I was going to say. I'm glad you seem to think you'll get on, at least. One problem I won't have to deal with again."

"Again?"

"Yeah, didn't you... no, never mind, of course not."

"What?"

John used to cherish moments when Sherlock looked confused. Now, not in pain but no less pale and frail looking, he can't. At all. "Relationship crap," he says with a shrug. "Not your area. Don't worry about it."

"I want to know."

He laughs. That's got to be a joke. "No you don't, Sherlock, I know you. You don't care."

"I'm trying to, John!"

Ah. So that's what this is about. He thinks he needs to care about everything now, the way a normal person would because... because he thinks that's what John needs. Or wants. John feels... betrayed. This isn't how things with Sherlock are supposed to go. He's supposed to be able to come back to the flat after a fight and not be asked questions because there was something much more interesting going on. Or nothing interesting on, and it's still not important. He's supposed to not have to defend his choice of women and their choice of John Watson unless Sherlock's in some sort of mood to deduce the hell out of them and probably get his arse out of a relationship he doesn't want to be in anyway. And with Mary... Mary's supposed to not mind that he goes over when he gets a text at half three in the morning to come and fill in for the skull. And she won't. He knows she won't, because Mary doesn't lie to him or try too hard.

He shakes his head. "Don't try, Sherlock, that's not what I want. Or what I need. Never. Not from you."

John sees Mycroft on his way out. The elder Holmes brother raises his eyebrows, but doesn't say anything, probably because John's dialing Mary's number and not looking at Mycroft because he doesn't want to hear anything he has to say.

"Ahoy," Mary says, and John grins like a loon. Over two years ago, when they'd just started dating, Mary had been reading about Alexander Gram Bell - Mary has made it her goal to have read about everything at some point, and it was just Alexander's turn - and along with the ever amusing fact that the first telephone call had consisted of, "Mr. Watson, come here, I want to see you," the proposition that the telephone be answered with "ahoy" stuck with her. Unless there was a crisis, she never answered with anything else. He answers in kind and gets a strange look from a passing nurse and he couldn't give less of a damn.

"How is he?" she asks.

"A complete prick."

"Oh, good." He laughs. "And how are you?" She has the most casual, most beautiful "how are you?" of anyone in existence.

"I am... just fine." Which means he's really not, but he's got it sorted on his own.

"Good. What shall I plan? Another clothes run tomorrow? With or without Chinese?"

"Ha. Don't worry about it, I'm coming home. Right now, calling a cab." Which he isn't, but he's getting there.

"No, no, no, you've got to stay there another day or I'll have brought you clothes for nothing! Thrifty with my energy, John, I've got to be thrifty with my energy. Don't waste it!"

He laughs and snaps a salute that she can't see. He's glad it's so easy for her to talk him out of it with her joke to hide just how serious she is. _Don't be stupid,_ she says behind it. _You need to be there with him. Neither of you are ready yet and you know it._

"Yes'm. Understood. With Chinese, then, please. The best of Bart's cafeteria is godawful."

"I have no doubt. See you at two or so? That way, you can reasonably cover two meals in one go."

"Brilliant. You think of everything. As always."

"Love you too." She hangs up so there's no awkwardness as he wonders if he should say it back. He doesn't need to, that's what the click at the end of the line means. Saying that she's brilliant is good enough for her, just like he'd hoped it would be.

He wanders a bit, and he realizes he doesn't have his cane. Of course. He laughs to himself a bit. Really, he's surprised it took the full two days.

* * *

Mycroft can tell Sherlock thought - no, hoped... interesting - that he was John. He is quite pointedly looking away from his older brother. He closes the door but doesn't bother moving away from it. Sherlock will, as usual, be unreceptive and cold and does Mycroft really want so much evidence for his guilt staring him in the face any closer than it already is? No. Caring about Sherlock is not an advantage in this bitter dance of theirs. Caring about Sherlock hurts so much.

"I thought you might be interested to know that we've lost Colonel Moran's trace." He words it to make Sherlock think he hasn't had a trace on him since the shooting, which is all too easy since Sherlock likes to assume Mycroft is that incompetent anyway. That isn't true - he knows that he caught the first plane out of Heathrow that night, which happened to be headed to Washington DC, bought a cheap camera, a hot dog, and a metro smart-trip card that was scanned once at Farragut North, but not at an exit station, and there were no reports of anyone attempting to jump the barriers or ride the red line in an infinite loop. It's certainly not impossible for one man to accomplish all this, but it would certainly mean they have to upgrade Sebastian Moran from rather impressive henchman to graceful rival. The alternative is much easier, much more likely.

"Of course you have." He's weak, trying to be derisive and just coming off as pathetically childish. Which he's being also, without the bullet wound and the drugs.

"He's receiving help."

"Impossible."

"Please. Did you really think that you'd brought down a worldwide network decades old with a bit of crime fighting on the Continent?"

"Decades, Mycroft? Moriarty was barely thirty-five."

Ah. So he really doesn't know. "And somehow, he'd managed to set up a pervasive, global economy of criminals that answered only to him in fifteen years, perhaps less. I know you respect the man, Sherlock, but even for James Moriarty, that is absurd. He monopolized the industry. The criminal lords went to him to advance their own interests, and now they've simply returned to business before, "Dear Jim.""

"You didn't deem it important enough to tell me." He must have suspected. How else would he be so calm, even with everything considered? And how could he have not known, being as intimate with the scourge of the world as he had become? No, this is a trap. Mycroft decides to fall for it to simplify things. Sherlock amasses more evidence for his grudge on a daily basis anyway.

"I needed you out of my hair, baby brother," he says because Sherlock hates that. "And you were perfectly willing to go."

"And so you've waited until I was too weak to fight back to tell me."

"To be sure, this is quite convenient, this recent administration of strong pain medication."

"That's the Mycroft I know and loathe."

Mycroft lets the silence fall, when they've run out of information to share and jabs to make. He can't stop the irrational fears that flood his active mind, that the last time they moved to this stage Moran was waiting and for _God's_ sake, he needs to stop it this instant because Moran's currently somewhere on the east coast of America and he's set up for a text alert the _moment_ he gets back in the country and _absolutely nothing _is going to happen.

He leaves, because that's easier.


	3. Intermission

**Arbitrary, out of sequence intermission because I'm hopelessly arrogant and I really love this relationship that I've created between them okay and you can't stop me. Also, I have support and reasons from patemalah21 and an anon who said my Mary is perfect. I will never, ever stop now. I hope you're proud.**

**Also, more completely serious than usual now, does anyone know of any other wishful-thinking-Mary-as-a-real-character-even-though-Doyle-didn't-give-her-much-characterization-to-begin-with fics? I'm just curious, since I can't exactly look her up since she _doesn't exist yet_ in this version and I'm lazy.**

* * *

Gunfire.

The bullets kick up storms of sandy soil and he can see every piece as he runs through it, the bits stinging his face and that can't be right but too late.

He can hear the different, muffled sound one bullet makes as it rams into someone's flesh. Someone's down. A spray of blood. Someone in the arms of another someone and neither of them have faces. Here they are. This part again.

His brain is letting him acknowledge that it is "again." That once every few weeks, in between "God, the flat is so warm" and "what have I got on today?" he's in Afghanistan and getting shot at and someone's getting shot but it's no one because his mind didn't find it important enough to insert a face under the helmet and that's good and so, so awful all at once.

But the colors are fading and what the hell is going on? This is new.

New and familiar and terrifying, because the color is sucked out of Afghanistan and it's London and so godawful and real. The ground is wet and he's holding his phone to his ear and looking at Bart's rooftop and _not hearing the words he should be hearing_.

He knows what they are, even though that makes no sense. He's memorized this, and the memorization is pervasive. _"I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this."_ That's what he should be hearing. That's what he doesn't want to be hearing because now he knows what it means, with complete certainty, and it's what he needs to be hearing because this is so much worse.

_Say something_, he prays silently, because for some reason his jaw is clamped shut too. _For god's sake, say _something_! _

But he doesn't. And the figure on the roof tips forward and time moves so, so slowly. Slowly enough for him to get help, to call someone, to run forward and catch him even if that won't work at all at least it would be something.

But he can't. He can't move, he can only watch the big coat billowing, trying to get enough purchase on the air and slow the fall enough that he won't have to turn the corner and see what he knows he's going to see.

He stumbles around the edge of the building. Stumbles, even though nothing's blurry and he can see every detail. There's blood, but no spray because that's too easy for this. Sprays of blood are easy. Oozing, dripping, mixing with the puddle his head has landed in, running all over the pavement, sticking the curls to his forehead, that's so, so difficult. The body turns, even though there's no one there to turn it, while he holds the wrist that's so warm and so still and he can see the blue eyes that can't see him and won't glance over things and know too much and won't light up because things are getting rather fun and -

John doesn't shoot up from his pillows like he does after nightmares about Afghanistan. After these, he just lies there, shaking and hoping he doesn't vomit. Mary knows the difference, and she doesn't have to ask. John can't recall her ever asking.

She's there next to him, on her side, looking him over, lightly holding his hand and drawing circles on the back of it. He's grateful for her touch. Sometimes he wishes she'd be more free with it, but then it wouldn't be as special, and she never withholds it when he really needs it.

When his breathing's calmed down appropriately, she touches his forehead and leaves him for a moment. To think about it, or not. Tonight, John chooses not. He just sits there, back against the pillows. Mary returns ten minutes later with drinks - tea for him, coffee for her - and a plate of biscuits. He tries to refuse the tea, for her sake because tomorrow's a Wednesday - it's already a Wednesday, come to think of it - and she's got to be up and functional at a hideous hour and she should get a little sleep, but she gives him a look that's a close relative of the "we both know what's really going on here" look that he's dubbed the "we both know you're more important to me than the brats" look. So he heaves a dramatic sigh and takes the tea, and a few of the biscuits on a second thought, because they're his favorite kind that they don't always manage to keep in the flat and it looks like she's emptied the box and he knows that she'll shamelessly polish them off if he's not quick about it.

Usually, their late night tea parties are passed comfortably not talking about it. Usually, they can talk about work or the rent or something, things that normal people talk about when they're up in the middle of the night, only normal people don't have a reason. But every so often he needs to talk. He does now. The change in the dream weighs heavy on him, that Sherlock was silent. He thinks Mary can feel it, with her "distressed Watson" sense, but she doesn't say anything. As always, it's John's choice when he says, "He didn't say anything this time."

"Nothing?" She reaches out and puts her hand on his shoulder, lightly rubbing back and forth, which is just what he needs.

"Nope."

"And?"

He doesn't have to answer. He knows he doesn't. He also knows that she probably wouldn't be asking if she wasn't fairly sure he would be willing to.

"It's... That's so much worse, isn't it? If... my phone had been off, or something. For him, too, not just me. I told him he wasn't human the last time we were in a room together. Jesus."

She reaches across him to put her mug on the bedside table beside the biscuit plate, accosting his along the way. When she's done, she doesn't move except to wiggle a little further under the covers, her arm still draped across his chest, head on his shoulder, and fingers ghosting over his collarbone where it peeks out from under the band of his t-shirt. He takes a deep breath and wraps one arm around her, kissing the top of her head.

"Get some sleep," she murmurs, tired despite the coffee - maybe they had decaf around after all.

He kisses her again. "You get some sleep. You're the one's got to be up at an ungodly hour."

_Thank you_ and _You're welcome._


	4. Chapter 3

**Here we are again. eohippus outright encourages me to be arrogant. I hope you know what you've unleashed, my lovely person.**

**It's occurred to me how angsty this is. This whole project, not just this specific part. That wasn't the original intention, hence this isn't filed under "angst," but these characters just exude angst from their pores. I can't help that. I only work with what the Doyle and the Mofftiss give me.**

* * *

Mycroft finds Moran a week after the shooting at Baker Street.

He finds him in Texas, via a credit card payment to his hotel. Mycroft has the building discretely surrounded and brings the man in without a hitch, but one didn't have to be a Holmes to realize that this absolutely stinks of a trap. He waits. He isn't sure if being caught is meant to get Moran back into England or meant to keep him out or get him back in and Mycroft has simply no idea how many levels of a bluff he's dealing with. He hadn't known how many he was dealing with when he brought Moriarty in either. He's still not entirely sure.

He leaves the main lobby for his study because it's getting rather late and John Watson is on a normal sleep schedule for the time being, while he can up Sherlock's medication and put him to bed for regular intervals. He hasn't called yet today because he's forcing himself not to call seven times a day because he did that on the first day Sherlock and John were back at the flat and John lost patience with that tactic in considerably under twenty-four hours.

So for the past two nights, he's only called once, to be regaled with stories of how difficult his brother is and doesn't Mycroft know that first-hand. He makes an effort not to laugh at the fact that it takes exactly one day for Sherlock to make himself sick testing the limits of his temporary dietary restraints, and exactly two for him to decide that his medication is impeding his mental capacity in a way that is absolutely unacceptable for moving between lying down in his bed and lying down on the sofa, dump it down the sink and then plead with John to run to the hospital and get more when the pain became unbearable as he should have known it would.

John is too weak to deal with Sherlock, Mycroft had thought when he'd heard all of this from the doctor. John scolds him before and he scolds him after, but in between, when Sherlock is utterly miserable, he soothes him, tells him everything will be all right. Mycroft used to do that, when Sherlock was a skinny little boy who found the need to experiment with everything, particularly things that were bound to hurt him or make him ill.

He found Sherlock in his room once, spilled chemicals all over the rug and Sherlock clutching his foot in the corner because he'd neglected to clean it up the day before and neglected to wear shoes the day of. The exact conditions of the botched experiment and how Sherlock had gotten ahold of the mildly corrosive materials weren't important, as there had been too many of these cases over the years for Mycroft to be bothered to store each of them. He remembers all the conversations though, even though they hurt.

_You didn't call for Mummy? She would have heard you._

_I never call for Mummy. Mummy doesn't know what she's _doing_. It's not _practical_ to call for Mummy._

_Trust you to use a word like "practical" when you're talking about waiting for me to get home. Doesn't it hurt?_

_Of course it hurts. That's why I'm not stepping on it._

_I _could _carry you._

_Don't be absurd._

_Trust you to use a word like "absurd." Did you learn that from Father?_

_Don't tell him, Mycroft. Please._

_Why on _Earth_ would I do something like that?_

_... Thanks._

_It would be much easier on both of us if you could stop doing this, every once in a while. You can learn all of these things from _books_, Sherlock._

_You can't learn _everything_ from_ books_, Mycroft. __Books can be wrong. Never trust anything until you can see for yourself, that's what Father says, doesn't he? We _can listen to him sometimes_, when he makes sense, can't we?_

He couldn't have been more than seven years old - that was when it had all fallen to pieces and Sherlock had stopped letting his big brother clean him up after things went wrong - but he'd managed to mimic Mycroft's concerned tone perfectly while still mocking it. But it's a lighter mocking than it is now, because they were so close, rather than so distant._  
_

The conversation gets hazy around there. Mycroft had brought up a point about particle physics or some such, which Sherlock dismissed as boring and Mycroft scolded him for it because how would he know and then both of them had dissolved into a fit of giggles, because that's what is supposed to happen when Mycroft asks Sherlock "how would you know," not bitter silence and irritation and silent power struggles and the fault is on both sides.

He dials John's number and thinks that maybe John's too strong to deal with Sherlock, and that he's the weak one. Back to caring again. How quaint.

John picks up on the fourth ring. "Mycroft," he says. What he always says in greeting him; not "hello," not "hey," and certainly not "ahoy."

"John," he replies. "How is he?"

"Excellent. Fantastic. Had some soup and tea and nothing else, took his meds like a good boy and is currently..." There's a pause, as though John's lost track of Sherlock and is trying to locate him. "... Analyzing my fiance," he finally says. Distant. Not at all excited about the prospects. "Excellent."

"Wish her luck."

"Absolutely." He's sure if he asked John to repeat his instructions, he wouldn't be able to do it. He's probably trying very hard to determine whether or not to intervene for the sake of his upcoming wedding.

Mycroft almost tries to catch John's attention again before he hangs up, but thinks better of it. He has plenty of time to consider what do to with Moran, do it, and then inform his little brother.

No need to interrupt his fun.

* * *

Mary Morstan is becoming "extraordinary" very, very quickly.

Sherlock has been trying for a solid hour to find something that she couldn't carry on a conversation about that he could. He's running out of ammo. She has a fair grasp of chemistry, though freely admits she hated it in school because it was so _predictable_ and she would much rather pay someone else to experiment and make discoveries than to actually touch a bit of equipment herself; she knows more than enough about history of all sorts, not just criminal history and the things Sherlock Holmes is specifically interested in; knowledge about forensics a mile wide and an inch deep; and a passing interest in criminology, though it's mostly the soft psychology bits, bless. And rather intimate knowledge about things that he doesn't care for a whit - classic literature (naturally), astronomy, philosophy, politics, and sensational trivia, though she's fortunately roughly as disdainful of that as he is: "Some people simply can't talk about anything else," she notes. Sometimes she's so interested by what they're talking about that she actually looks up from the papers that she's busy covering with red marks but generally decent grades.

He's willing to admit to himself - never to John - that even though Mary's willing to share John with him, he's not so willing to do the same, not with an ordinary person. He supposes it's good, then, that Mary isn't very ordinary. He might feel a little less resentment in the months to come.

"Biology?" he asks simply. When he'd started, he had proposed proper questions about the field and he'd determined and extrapolated from her answers the rough dimensions of her knowledge. But then John had practically forced another dose of medicine into his system when he'd been honest about his pain level and he's getting sleepy now and asking real questions about things he's only partially interested in is just so much work.

"What of it?" A question with a question.

"How do you find it?" With a question.

"Depends on the subset. Macro's generally fascinating, particularly evolutionary niches, but micro's just tedious, isn't it?"

Sherlock frowns. "I find the opposite to be true."

She's smiling as she flips a paper over into her "done" pile. "Of course you do. It's your job."

"My "job" is whatever I make it."

"Yes it is."

Sherlock doesn't know how to respond to that. Well, he does, but none of the options his brain presents him with are particularly good ones. He's found that Mary has a talent for rendering him speechless, simply because he doesn't want to seem childish or stupid to this clearly very intelligent woman. Normally, intelligence doesn't make him falter - he's Sherlock Holmes, why should it? - but so rarely does it come without the need to show off. Mary is a secondary school English teacher who finds more fault in Sherlock Holmes than in her students, whose atrocious grammar she corrects almost lovingly. She can be so much more. She _should_ be so much more. Someone exciting or interesting, changing the world or at least doing what she pleases. But this _is_ what she pleases, and that rather confuses him. She is content having a _job_ and being engaged to John Watson. John's choice is, when it matters, impeccable.

He supposes, when he thinks about it, that it must take a very special sort of woman to put up with John Watson. The others were ordinary as dirt and they'd all left when they realized they would have to wrestle with Sherlock Holmes for John's attention - he does pay attention to John's "relationship crap", he just doesn't care very much (at all) because they were never prominent figures at 221B - and that Sherlock would usually win. He's not sure what they were expecting from an army doctor invalided home from Afghanistan, or maybe they just hadn't taken that into consideration at all, which is an equally stupid notion.

"Nearly done interrogating her, Sherlock?" John asks as he comes from the kitchen with tea and coffee. There's none for him, because Sherlock's already had his daily dose of caffeine and more than one cup _will_ actually make him ill, which is horrid and limiting but there's nothing for it, he has the data now. He gives Mary her liquid bliss and a light kiss on the cheek. That's something notable too; she's made John more physically affectionate than she is. John's normally the one stingy with... well, everything in the relationship, but here he is passing out kisses and little touches like penny candy.

"Oh, is that what we're doing?" Mary asks. She seems genuinely surprised, but Sherlock isn't sure he can trust it because how could she not notice? "I thought we were just talking about anything and everything. I haven't done that in a while, it's very nice."

"Nope. That's an interrogation. Probably trying to decide if he'll grace us with his presence at the wedding. What's the verdict?"

"She balances you nicely. I'll be sure of twice as much decent conversation."

John had insisted on things being normal between them, but perhaps not quite so normal, because John doesn't reply to him and Sherlock can see him mouthing, "Thanks," to the floor and he screams inwardly. For one, it's not as much of an insult as John clearly thinks it is, but he's not about to explain that aloud, and for another that's what Sherlock before the Jim Business _does_ and he wishes John would make up his mind and either let him try to be a normal person who pretends to care or let him be Sherlock Holmes.

"Oh, don't look like that, love." Mary's put aside her papers and curling up in her chair - John's chair - catlike, cradling her mug in both hands and peering over the top at his downcast, frustrated face. "He's trying to compliment the both of us, be proud of him!" When John still doesn't smile, she pulls an exaggerated frown, which makes him laugh.

They talk about nothing for a while and Sherlock zones, trying to undo the puzzle of John Watson and what he's supposed to do to make things better. When their beverages are finished, or at least to the point where neither of them feel guilty pouring the dregs down the sink, John gathers the mugs and says, "I'll be upstairs. Whenever you're done." Mary smiles in return and keeps smiling as John disappears. She then pulls up her stack of papers again and resumes scribbling in red almost immediately.

Sherlock waits, mostly to make sure that John won't hear him, partly because he's no good at having feelings, worse at talking them, and forget asking for advice. "I know," he begins after he searches for eloquent words, finds them, deems them rubbish, and decides to just say whatever he can manage, "I've hurt him, Mary. Am I hurting him still?"

She finishes her comment deliberately, then puts her pen down and doesn't look at him. "Of course you are, Sherlock."

"How?" He doesn't care if she takes it, "how am I hurting him?" or, "how can I stop?" He means both questions. He needs both answers.

"By leaving. By coming back. By being here in the first place." She is so calm, it makes him more upset. He's shaking. "Everything is wrong because, once, things were perfect."

"What am I supposed to do? How do I fix it?" His voice shakes as badly as he does.

She looks at him and he hates the look in her eyes. Pity. Codling. Look at Sherlock, he doesn't understand _people,_ doesn't understand what he's supposed to do, the poor thing, isn't he so smart and _precious_. Well, it's not that he doesn't understand people, that he couldn't if he wanted to people don't understand him don't understand that this is how they were meant to function but instead they got saddled with pointless feelings that benefit nothing and the real potential of humanity is treated like a freak who has to circumvent all of their pettiness just to get anything done well he's not going to take this not from her not now hasn't he known this was what he was coming back to a serious girlfriend and then a fiance and John who's moved on and hasn't he been aching for three years too.

"We don't fix it, Sherlock," she says finally, only a moment later. "I wouldn't fix John if I could. We take it and make the best of it, because nothing's going to "fix" it. You're always going to be hurting him for what you did, which is why I don't forgive you either. No matter what you do, it's going to hurt. Some things more than others, and you just have to learn which ones are which."

He takes a deep breath and he shouldn't, he really shouldn't, but he says, "I see, you're hurting him too."

She's looked away by now, but he sees her mouth tighten. "I am."

"How? You've done nothing wrong."

"But I'm not you, am I?"

Once again, Sherlock doesn't know what to say.

* * *

It's a while before Mary comes up from the sitting room. John hears her putting her papers into her massive organizer and he's glad today's Friday and he's on leave for the next week and a half. She opens the top drawer to get her nightie, but he's not sure if she pulls it out because she doesn't change before sliding under the comforter with him. He starts to roll over to face her because Mary _never_ just collapses in bed, she's so methodical and particular about those things, but she hushes him and cuddles closer, wrapping her arms around him and rubbing her nose against his shoulder blades. "Don't ruin it."

He doesn't know what he's not supposed to be ruining but there's a desperation in her voice that scares him, so he mumbles, "Okay," and stays where he is. "Sherlock get to bed okay?" he asks after a minute.

"Yeah."

Her voice breaks and a sob is muffled against his t-shirt. "Jesus, Mary, what's..." he begins, moving again, but she cuts him off.

"Don't!" She's crying in ernest, a spot on his shirt going warm and then cold with damp, squeezing him tighter and holding him in place. "Don't, please."

It feels like forever because the last thing he wants to do is have her so close and not _letting _him be there for her like she's been there for him, or maybe that's the second-to-last because the last is having her not trust him like this ever again, to know that she knows what's best for her and it'll be all better soon. And it is all better soon, because absolutely no time at all has passed before she lets go of him and says, "Okay. I'm okay, John, you can look at me."

He's turned over in an instant, a hand on hers as she wipes at her face. "Jesus, Mary, wha -"

"And Joseph," she says with a grin, and John knows he's never going to find out what it was that made her like that because he can't help smiling at it too, even if it feels so wrong.

"Yeah," he says, pulling her into his arms before she can get up to put her nightie on, not just yet. "Him too."


	5. Chapter 4

**Introducing the Mary-spective!**

**See, see, it's a pun. It's very clever if you don't look too closely, I promise.**

**Special thanks to the lovely Jodi2011 and rustyla for their reviews, as well as everyone who's put this on their alerts and/or favorites, which I honestly hadn't noticed until today. Multiple people want to receive an e-mail in the middle of the night because I've decided to write things and post them according to my Sherlockian sleep schedule! All of the arrogance!**

* * *

John's come to depend on the drugs.

It's good that Sherlock can mind himself again, now that he's gone back to his regular shifts at the surgery - which, after three years, line up remarkably well with secondary school hours - and it's good that he's been weened down to over the counter pain relief without a hitch. But it's been almost two weeks since they've been back at 221B and John isn't missing the good old days much any more.

The good old days. He's not sentimental about them (not very) now that he's got them back. There weren't that many cases, really, because Sherlock's so stubbornly selective, and most of their time was spent as John's spending it now: Trying to talk Sherlock into eating and sleeping regularly and out of doing dangerous things in the kitchen. It's rather more important now, but Sherlock is resistant as ever to the notion that he's a human being.

He gets home at half two that Wednesday, because those are traditionally his office days and he's quick with the paperwork so he can have dinner waiting for Mary when she comes in, instead of going through their joint endeavors that generally involve plans of something exotic and new and end with pasta. His cooking usually ends in pasta too, but the difference is that he _plans_ to make pasta because he doesn't delude himself into thinking he's an excellent chef the way Mary does when they're together. It's the first Wednesday that he's worked since Sherlock's been back, so he looks surprised when John walks into the kitchen clearly several hours before he's expected. He's in the middle of mounting slides and looks almost guilty.

John takes a deep breath. "What're you doing?"

"Why are you home? You work until five."

"Office day. What are you doing?" he repeats, but doesn't wait for a direct answer, because that could take all day. He picks up one of the slides. Even he knows at a glance - well, several glances - that it's a sample of fabric residue that one might find left behind on a door frame or between cracks in the floor, but he's bribed Lestrade into keeping anything interesting away from Sherlock for the next month at least and four years ago Sherlock made sure he had similar samples from every single piece of John's clothing, which means... oh no.

"Nothing hazardous to my health, Doctor," he's saying while John looks around the room. Sherlock knows he's in trouble, but he's not normal and doesn't look toward the pile, so it takes John a moment, even though they're not well hidden.

It's an even spread of everything Mary's brought to Baker Street for their indefinite stay; a "teaching" blouse and slacks, one of her cotton skirts that she likes to wear both when they go out and when they stay in, a selection of her shirts, two pairs of socks, and - John feels himself coloring a bit because Jesus Christ what could make even _him_ think this was fine? - a bra and one of each of the two kinds of underwear Mary Morstan owns. John pinches the bridge of his nose and walks to the counter.

He tries to think of something poignant to say, to make Sherlock realize just how _not good_ this is, but nothing comes. He's not sure something like that can be taught at 37, but if it can, he's sure Mary's better suited to explain it to Sherlock than he is. "Anything been on this counter that'd make me scared to cook on it?" he says finally. He's hoping it clears the air a little but doesn't send the wrong message.

"Perhaps the undergarments you're currently -"

"Oh for God's sake." John's not sure if Sherlock thinks he's being funny, but he wants to smack him.

"John, I was only -"

"No," John interrupts. "No." He puts Mary's clothes down in a pile on his chair that's become Mary's chair, then goes to find a pot for the pasta sauce that he won't start for another three hours - which is much easier than it used to be since they spent a Saturday scrubbing the kitchen and everything in it clean and Sherlock hasn't been left on his own for long enough to destroy their work yet. "We're not going to talk about this until Mary gets back. She's the one whose privacy you've tossed out the window this time, not mine."

He sees the look Sherlock's giving him, hears the unspoken words that he'll never say. _That's not the John Watson I know._ The John Watson Sherlock knows would have made sure Mary never found out. He would have dealt with Sherlock because the thought of Mary confronting him was embarrassing and terrifying. He never would have been secure enough in their relationship to let her go head to head with Sherlock, but that's already happened and they're none the worse for it.

He gives Sherlock a look in return. _I'm not the John Watson._

* * *

Mary comes in at six to the smell of processed tomato sauce and the sound of Sherlock strumming absently at his violin. It's very warm despite the chill outside and the windows are fogged up a bit... she isn't surprised, then, when she turns into the kitchen to find John overcooking the pasta and sending clouds of steam into his face. He finishes emptying the pot into the strainer, a few noodles not quite making it in, looks up at her and grins. It's such a relief to see him smiling that she can't help herself when she mirrors him; she never can. "Just in time," he says.

"You mean you're just in time." She reaches around him to shake the last bits of water from the pasta, because he always forgets when she's not there and it weakens the sauce a bit. Not that she minds. "I know you know when I leave, you can't fool me."

His arm slides loosely around her waist. "I never can." He kisses her temple noisily without quite touching her skin.

"Would Mr. Holmes like some tonight?" she asks in the direction of the sitting room as she serves herself right out of the sink. Sometimes Sherlock deigns to partake in their meals, and sometimes his royal highness is above their regular eating schedules. She has yet to figure out when those times are.

"Please."

"Oh no, I'm not going to get it for you." She stops after two scoops and moves on to sauce. "I just needed to know how much I should leave. Be nice, John."

"Don't worry, he'll clean out the fridge if he's not satisfied, he's not on a case."

"That's right. How is that... going?"

There's a pile of her clothes on her chair.

Puzzled and interested, Mary sets down her plate. Sherlock is the only explanation; he's in what Mary understands to be "his" chair, across from hers, and trying not to look sullen. He was doing something involving her clothes, John caught him, and now he's holding him accountable with a public display. She almost feels bad for him.

"Sherlock's got something to say." Mary giggles aloud while she roots through the pile to determine what's there. They've been having this discussion, about whether or not they're Sherlock's parents, and the answer is clearly, "yes." John has recently stopped arguing.

She's still a little giggly when she asks Sherlock, "What did you need with my clothes?"

"Data," he answers immediately. He holds his violin right up against his chest, gripping the neck almost violently, playing dissonant chords that match his aggravated and rapid speech. "I've extensive records of clothing fibers gathered from a variety of surfaces with varying levels of concentration and contamination, but it occurs to me recently that they are overwhelmingly male. I never thought much of it, but what if there is a fundamental difference between the way fabric is treated depending on what gender the final product is intended for and who's more likely to wear something of mixed fabrics and which ones and how much time could I save by being able to tell at a glance whether the fibers were left by a man or a woman, enough, that's the word you're looking for, particularly when I'm stuck here with nothing else to do between doctor's orders and Mycroft's massive nose being where it doesn't belong!"

His final, angry pull at the strings is too much. The D string snaps and Sherlock has the look of being frustrated to the verge of tears, which is so hilarious on a grown man that Mary bursts out laughing again. He stands up and she thinks he says something about not being taken seriously, but she stands too and puts her arms around him as he tries to leave.

"It's okay, honey, don't cry," she says as seriously as she can manage - which isn't particularly seriously at all because he's nine inches taller than her and three years older and it's all so absurd. She feels him inhale sharply while she rubs his back. "Mummy's not mad at you."

"You have to apologize anyway, Sherlock, you don't just get to let it go now... Sherlock?"

Mary loosens her arms because that's John's "concerned doctor voice." She doesn't see what's changed in Sherlock's face that makes him sound like that, but then, she doesn't expect to. She gets out of the way.

"Sit down and let me see, _right_ now." John herds Sherlock back into his chair, working the buttons of his dress shirt. Mary can see his face now, and it's not lined with pain or particularly white the way he gets when it's really bad, so how had John known? It's a stupid question. How does she know when John needs tea and to not talk about anything? How does she know when he still needs tea but does need to talk? She knows the little things that he does that he's not even aware of that tell her exactly what he needs from her.

So she pays attention.

It doesn't take her long to find it, about as long as it takes for John to look over the very raw scar tissue just below Sherlock's ribcage and notice something's wrong. There _is_ pain in his features, but more importantly there's confusion and a little fear; something's hurting and he doesn't know why. Of course her fiance could tell.

"You are so... how did you even manage to do this?" John's asking.

"I don't know, tell me what I managed to do," Sherlock responds cheekily, but it's strained and doesn't have the full effect.

John turns to her, vaguely alarmed, but in control. "Mary, I'm so sorry, but can you get the car? We've got to go to the hospital, he's gone and torn something and he's bleeding. I'm sorry you didn't get to eat..."

She's already going for her keys. "Don't worry about it, love," she calls over her shoulder when she hits the stairs.

Her few friends tell her whenever they get the chance that she shouldn't be so accommodating. That she shouldn't bend over backwards for John Watson because that's what he's supposed to be doing for her. That he'll end up taking advantage of her. She pretends to listen, but their concern is largely ignored and she doesn't talk about John much when she's around them any more.

For one, she's never minded being there for people. Her mother, who was more of a child than Mary ever got the chance to be, her little brother, her friends during primary school who were always bullied. It's not really an effort, and she's so good at it. John would never take advantage of her - she's got to talk him into asking for things he really needs as it is, and she's supposed to be worried about him asking for things he doesn't? Please - and she's not entirely sure she would mind if he did. For another, she's never wanted to be looked after. Thirty four years of independence has yet to be overruled by three overlapping years of a relationship with John that still leaves her independent as she pleases, where it really mattered.

Her Ford is parked nearly a block away because _someone_ has gotten very comfortable with the idea that the people at 221 don't own a car, but she still makes it back before the boys have made it down the steps. Considering the fiasco when they'd brought Sherlock _up_ the steps, it doesn't surprise her.

"Been too calm for you, hasn't it?" John's saying as he leads Sherlock out the door. He's leaning against John heavily, and he's making the face that he makes instead of crying out or complaining. She sees that the walk down the steps has winded him and that breathing hurts. "It's just not good enough without a crisis."

"I wasn't _trying_ to injure myself, John."

"Yeah, I know, you're too vain for that." He loads Sherlock into the back seat and looks at her. "Thank you _so much_," he says. She knows he doesn't mean just for driving.

She gives him a quick kiss and says, "Like I said, don't worry about it."

Mary doesn't really like driving because it requires too much of her attention. It's difficult for her to begin with and driving in the city is a special kind of nightmare. She barely notices the spreading red splotches on Sherlock's chest, or how John holds his hand and tells him he's going to be all right and occasionally rubs his shoulder or brushes damp hair away from his forehead when they stop at traffic lights. Because she doesn't forgive him and she doesn't mind sharing.

* * *

It would be a lie to say that Mycroft isn't worried when John calls him to inform him that Sherlock's back in the hospital. He just has much bigger things to be worried about, like the fact that his connections in America are growing tired of holding Moran even if they do owe him a favor, or many favors, that he still doesn't know what Moran's plan is or how to counter it, that he's paying little mind to things of national importance to try to keep his little brother safe from the mess they've created together. He's simply too aloof for John Watson.

"I get it. You don't care," says the bitter voice at the other end of the line.

"When my brother announced ten years ago that he was creating a field for himself as a consulting detective, I had resigned myself to the assumption that the hospital would become his semi-permanent place of residence," he responds icily. "Forgive me for not being alarmed or surprised." In truth, he's both of those things. Well, maybe not the second one... "I'm dealing with a number of very important and _delicate_ situations at the moment, not the least of which being Sebastian Moran. I am slightly distracted."

There's nothing at the other end for a moment, and Mycroft thinks that he's somehow stunned John into silence, which he wasn't expecting because John isn't the kind to take that from him. He knows that isn't the case when John says slowly, "_Sebastian_ Moran."

Mycroft is still irritated, but the tone catches his attention. John Watson knows James Moriarty's right-hand man? "Yes, the man whose current goal is _killing_ _your friend_."

"I know that, you've just never mentioned his first name... But you said he was a colonel?"

"Yes. John, how do you know him?"

"If he's the same Sebastian that served in Afghanistan, he was one of my mates. Not my sub-unit, but one we spent a lot of time close to, under the same Lieutenant Colonel. He was only a major, then, but I wouldn't be surprised if he'd been promoted... he was with me when I got shot."

Mycroft takes a deep breath and says absently, "Colonel Moran was a major stationed in Afghanistan in 2009." He's thinking in the time it takes John to formulate a response. No one they have record of serving in Moran's sub-unit reports being close to him; "mates" certainly suggests a rather intimate friendship. He's not sure how he's missed it for so long, but this could be what he needs.

"How the hell did he wind up working for Moriarty?"

"We've been able to piece together that they were rather close friends before Moran joined the military. Moriarty called on an old favor at some point and they continued to work together until three years ago. Was Moran very clever?"

"What?"

"Clever, John, how clever was your friend Sebastian?" Mycroft is almost positive of the answer, but there's no reason to be making assumptions when he has the proof on the other line.

John inhales audibly. "Really clever. The cleverest person I knew before I met the two of you."

Of course. "Thank you, John. You've been a great help."

"How? You already knew that, didn't you?"

"It helps to be prepared. The smallest details may prove crucial."

Mycroft hangs up and leans back in his chair. He's confirmed what he's suspected all along, and it gives him more comfort than it should. He resolves to bring Moran back into the country as soon as possible and to have a face to face conversation with him within the week.

* * *

Sherlock's familiar with this sensation as he comes round after surgery for a second time in a month. The uncomfortable bed that he doesn't care is uncomfortable, the weakness, the medley of drugs in his system that dull the pain easily but do nothing for the rushing inside his skull except make it less coherent. He doesn't know why it would cross John's mind that this is more interesting than being cooped up in the flat; it's still horribly, unendingly dull and he hasn't even got a microscope.

"Morning," John says groggily, checking his watch. Someone pulled some strings and got a second bed into Sherlock's room, which John and Mary are sharing. Mary's the only one actually asleep, though, curled up on top of him like a cat, one of his hands gently stroking her hair. They look so horribly, modernly picturesque and he hates the both of them. Why did John have to move on? Why did he have to find someone else who made him happy? Why did he have to be so absolutely willing to uproot himself from his horrifically domestic routine to help Sherlock with a case gone wrong? And why did he have to find the one person in London who Sherlock can't reasonably find fault in and propose to her?

Mary Morstan. So sickeningly perfect. She won't forgive him, but she'll move in with him because John needs to look after him so Mycroft and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson don't have to and because he's missed 221B. She won't forgive him, but she'll sit with him and hold him when he feels he's about to die. She won't forgive him, but she'll take him into consideration when she's making dinner with John. She won't forgive him, but she won't mind him taking her clothes and using them for experiments, with a "mummy" joke included for John's benefit. She won't forgive him, but she'll drive him to the hospital after he triggers internal bleeding by playing the violin, which even he knows is absolutely absurd but if anyone can play the violin too violently it's him. She won't forgive him, but he'll never be able to tell.


	6. Intermission II

**Last intermission before the real story kicks in, I swear.**

**And... review? Please? I like them. A lot.**

* * *

Mary's told herself that she told Sherlock the truth when she spoke to him in the hospital. She doesn't mind sharing John. She's been effectively sharing him for three years, because John hadn't forgotten and he hadn't moved on. She knows that John imagined, far too often, what Sherlock would say or do whenever something interesting turned up in the news. It's something she came to accept, and something she forced herself to accept when John went back to Baker Street five days ago and found the consulting detective, nearly lost him again, and brought him back to the flat. She knows that she'll be sharing John with a real, living Sherlock from here on out, and that her move to 221B Baker Street is probably more permanent than she led their landlord to believe. She knows that it will make John so much happier, happier than she's ever known him to be, and doesn't she want that for him.

But it's so, so hard.

She burns with resentment when he comes up to the bedroom they now share as she's just beginning to fall asleep, exhausted from dealing with Sherlock, who's been experimenting in exactly how sick he can make himself with as little forbidden food as possible. She doesn't let him see, because that's not what he needs. He needs to see her smile, needs her to be a little more affectionate than usual, a little more sweet, needs her to be concerned for Sherlock, so she is.

He climbs into bed without changing, briefly checks to make sure she's awake of her own accord, then proceeds to kiss her senseless for a solid five minutes. There's been precious little time for physical affection longer than a few seconds these past few days, and God, she's missed it. She almost forgets what John needs besides, obviously, this.

"I am so, so sorry," he whispers into her neck when he's calmed down. "You didn't have to stay up, you've got to work in the morning."

She pulls away just enough so she can see his face, then raises her eyebrows. "We always end up talking about this. It's always the same answer, love."

"I know, I know." He kisses her again, sweet rather than hungry this time. "John Watson, priority ultra."

That stings, because it's from a case - Baskerville, she thinks - but she smiles anyway and kisses his nose. "Eloquently put. Now get changed, your jumper's itchy. I don't know how you can stand it."

"Comes with being an old man." He teasingly rubs his sleeve against her face and she gives him the appropriate repulsed look. It's comfortable and familiar, which she thinks he needs after dealing with Sherlock all day. She hopes he needs it. For the first time she can remember, she isn't sure.

"Six months still before you're an old man," she says sleepily while he gets into his pajamas. "Don't sound so excited."

She drifts off with John's arm wrapped around her waist, her shirt rucked up a bit and his palm warm against her hip.

* * *

She's groggy when John jerks awake. A glance at the clock says she has good reason; three in the morning. Two hours before she has to get up for work.

At first, Mary thinks she's slept through one of his nightmares, which makes her feel awful. She's never done that before, even though John's not exactly loud about his flashbacks. Then she hears the voice in the hallway, calling for him, and she's wide awake and angry.

"Jesus," John mutters, not quite as exasperated as she think he means to sound. He's worried out of his mind. Of course he is.

She's not as fast as he is, and John's half carrying Sherlock to the couch by the time she gets her dressing gown on. He's telling Sherlock that he'll be okay but that he needs to know where his meds are. "Sink," Sherlock groans.

"What the hell... never mind." He's used to things being where they have no business being, and she is too, now. They'll have to do something about that.

"Your bathroom sink, Sherlock? They're not here." He stops. Mary turns into the sitting room and sees him leaning closer, smelling. "You..." he growls, not able to find a word to properly express how frustrated he is. "What was it? Couldn't think, or something? Detrimental to your mental capacity, right? And now you want me to go out, in the middle of the night, to the hospital and pull strings and beg for more because you thought you could manage without it five days after you got shot in the chest. Classic!"

"John..."

"I ought to leave you like this." "This" is doubled over on the couch, white and shaking violently. Mary knows he'd never do it. "I ought to go back to bed until I've had as much damn sleep as I want because you deserve every minute of this, you insufferable git."

"John, please."

"But I won't. You're right, I won't. God knows why." He's shrugging on his jacket and slipping into his shoes without socks. "Mary, please go back up to bed or I'll feel so awful."

"Can't have that," she says, kissing his cheek as he passes.

But she doesn't go back up the stairs. She stands there in her bare feet, looking at Sherlock on the couch, trying to see the man who caused John so much pain, who she doesn't forgive, but only seeing a little boy who's hurt and desperately needs to be held, though he'd never ask for it, would rather die than ask for it. Her little brother, Sawyer. Her friends in primary school. The baby she's only recently imagined raising with John. Something in her stomach aches with it.

Sherlock takes a breath and makes a heartbreaking noise that's in between a moan and a sob and Mary doesn't try to avoid it anymore. "Oh, honey, come here." She goes to the couch and gingerly pulls him into her arms. One hand rubs his back and shoulders, the other brushes a curl away from his face, then stays there, stroking his forehead. "It's all right. You're going to be all right."

They sit like that for a while, Sherlock in her lap, head resting on her shoulder, before he tries to speak. "I thought -"

"Shhh," she says and runs her hand through his hair.

He's insistent, and continues. "You didn't... forgive me. For hurting him."

Ah. That. "I don't."

"So why... this?"

She takes a moment, toying with his hair, even pressing her lips to the top of his head once or twice. "I don't forgive you, so you think that means I have to be horrible to you. It doesn't work that way, Sherlock. Not with me, anyway."

"So why." He trembles and makes the sound again.

"Shhh. No more of that. I told you because I thought you should know, that's all. Because I'm prone to doing things like this anyway, because things aren't black and white, even if we'd like them to be. You've hurt John, but you make him so happy. So I can't really be awful to you, even if I wanted to. And I don't, sweetie. I really don't."


End file.
